Annalee Newitz

On Monday, we announced a contest whose winner would get to take home this amazing Sharktopus plushie. Winners completed a paragraph starting with this sentence: "When Sharktopus fell in love, it was a mild spring day." And here they are.

When Sharktopus fell in love, it was a mild spring day. She was the prettiest Bumblerilla he had ever seen. The way her kaleidoscopic compound eyes sparkled as she picked off and devoured unsuspecting beach goers one by one almost made him forget about the renegade submarine captain chasing after him. He wished so much to be with her, but alas, they were from two different worlds. He was born to be a terror of the ocean deep, and she was the personification of death from above. But for that one brief second, when he emerged from the water to attack a passing helicopter right as she was ripping the arms off of a passing parasailor and their eyes first met, he was happy.

When Sharktopus fell in love, it was a mild spring day. He knew he was changed for the rest of his life. because just two years prior, Sharktopus couldn't find love no matter how hard he looked for it. We've all heard this tragic story before. Love in the ocean is between one fish and another fish, not between a shark and an octopus. The religious schools of fish preached and scorned Sharktopus from his very birth. Growing up a closeted homosexual as well as a shark/octopus hybrid, Sharktopus knew what it was like to be different. Unlike the openly gay dolphins, Sharktopus needed to keep a strong image or leave the sea forever.

After being heckled on the street by a Latino sea bass gang, Sharktopus had had enough. He packed up his stuff and set out towards dryer pastures. He arrived on the coast of a farming village. This farming village had never seen a shark nor an octopus so they had no preconceptions about the fear and terror he had previously shown humans. What worried them most was his lisp and lack of any cares about gender identity. He couldn't simply scare them into accepting homosexuality. He had to teach and nurture this small-minded community. Eventually they learned to love Sharktopus and become more open to his lifestyle. Sadly, it was two years into his new life and Sharktopus had still yet to find love. Everything was stacked against him. This was all about to change as a new farmer had moved into the village.

It was a warm spring day a few years later when he saw a horse being led into the village. He then saw a donkey being led into the village. After the donkey's entrance, he saw the most magnificent creature he had ever seen with his black shark eyes. It was a mule, as handsome as James Franco, as poetic as Ursula Rucker, and as gay as I wish James Franco were. The mule glanced over. Sharktopus' cheeks turned red with embarrassment. He knew he had found love. These were two creatures that were forbidden to find love that were created from creatures that weren't supposed to mate. Love is a funny thing and Sharktopus could finally put his traumatic past behind him.

He and the mule married on the coast of Massachusetts. They live in Provincetown with their two cocker spaniels and three cats. The mule is now a painter and Sharktopus has his own stage show twice a week.

When Sharktopus fell in love, it was a mild spring day. A mild spring day that would soon develop into a force 5 tornado descending upon a sleepy Kansas puppy orphanage, because Killerbeemeerkat refused to answer his phone calls. They had met several hours earlier over drinks at Chili's (he had a Screaming Bungeejumper, she had a Science is the New Magic) and Sharktopus knew from the start that this hot little number was the only woman/beemeerkat/twistedabomination for him. The way she flirted so endearingly, sinking her poison coated stinger the size of a harpoon into each one of his eight limbs that wandered a little too close to her chest, the way she would dart away and stand up to scan the horizon every time he leaned in close for a kiss; Sharktopus knew full well the game they played and the inevitable outcome to the dance.

Killerbeemeerkat. In his bed. With three tons of Vaseline, eight rubber gloves, and an armoatherapy candle (jasmine scented of course, for her pleasure). There would also be several C-list actors for snacks in case either of them felt low on stamina, all supplied by Sharktopus' dealer Roger.

But when Sharktopus returned from the bathroom (his IBS always flared up after eating Chili's bar snacks) Killerbeemeerkat was nowhere to be seen. All Sharktopus could find was a napkin with a hurried scrawl in red lipstick - "Call me. K"

And so Sharktopus sat on his barstool, anger bubbling up like his digestive tract, pounding the same numbers into his phone over and over and over.